


Guiding Hand

by seaholly



Series: Guiding Hand [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Corporal Punishment, Discipline, M/M, Pre-Slash, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 09:28:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaholly/pseuds/seaholly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock once again risks his life by playing games with a serial killer, John finds himself taking stern measures to try to keep his mad detective safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guiding Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ophelia_interrupted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ophelia_interrupted/gifts).



> This was written a while back as a partial fill for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/10852.html?thread=53344868#t53344868), which asked for John spanking Sherlock with cuddling afterwards. This fic has a different reason for the spanking from the original prompt, but I think I got most of the rest of it in there.
> 
> The original prompt was as follows:
> 
> John's been quite patient with Sherlock, the experiments, the texts at odd hours, Sherlock's total disregard of boundaries of any kind, and all the little things Sherlock does to amuse himself at John's expense in order to stave off boredom. Making John believe that Sherlock has contracted a deadly disease and is dying just to record John's reaction is too much though. John pins Sherlock face down over his lap and gives him a thorough spanking.
> 
> Much to John and Sherlock's surprise, Sherlock immediately goes limp and compliant when John begins spanking him. After the spanking, confused!Sherlock lets John cuddle and comfort him.
> 
> Bonus for John making Sherlock talk during the spanking about why he's being spanked, and why it was wrong of Sherlock to do that.

 

When John Watson had entered 221B Baker Street after what had turned out to be a very, very long night, he had been cold, wet, tired, hungry and pissed off.

A hot shower and a change of clothes later, he was no longer wet and cold, but he was still tired, still hungry, and definitely still pissed off.

He didn’t think it was at all unreasonable that he was pissed off. Living with Sherlock—or working with Sherlock, or interacting with Sherlock in any capacity, really—was likely to drive anyone to distraction after a while. John had grown very fond of Sherlock very quickly; Sherlock was brilliant and fascinating and—God help him—fun. However, he was also bloody infuriating.

Especially, at least in John’s opinion, when he was nearly getting himself killed.

Tonight had been . . . well, ridiculous was the only word for it. Maybe it hadn’t been quite as ridiculous as the ‘Sherlock getting into a cab with a known serial killer’ occasion, but honestly, it wasn’t that far from it.

This time the serial killer had turned out to be identical twin serial killers, which was just bloody weird in John’s opinion, but of course had been hugely appealing to Sherlock. Sherlock had doggedly pursued the murderous duo—with no police backup, of course; God forbid he let the poor sods actually try to do their job—and John had dutifully followed, and the pursuit had eventually led to all four of them playing what had amounted to a wild game of tig around and across far too many moored up boats. The chase had finally ended on a boat that wasn’t moored up, when the panicking pair attempted a (completely overdramatic, in John’s opinion) river getaway. And as if that wasn’t enough, the grand finale had been a bracing dip in the Thames for everyone.

And John didn’t care what they said about it being spring and getting warmer now, the Thames at that time of night was bloody freezing.

It had all been completely unnecessary, too, because if Sherlock had just been willing to _call Lestrade_ , the police could have come right then and handled it and saved them all a lot of trouble. But no, Sherlock had to have a go himself, and it had all gone pear-shaped very quickly. The homicidal duo had certainly seemed very clever initially, which was why Sherlock had been so interested in them, but clever or not, they hadn’t exactly dealt well with the idea of being caught. They’d panicked, and so began all the lunatic running around and wild escape attempts on boats. Which, once again, could have all been avoided if Sherlock had just been willing to call Lestrade.

Of course, John could have called Lestrade himself, but he’d been a bit busy trying to keep Sherlock and himself from a) getting murdered and b) drowning in the freezing bloody river.

When Lestrade had arrived, after having finally been informed of what was going on, he had been seriously annoyed, but there had also been a weary air to it that John could quite understand. The whole thing had just been so . . . Sherlock.

As a small mercy, at least they hadn’t had to hang around for Sherlock to be obnoxious to Lestrade and the rest of his team. Both of them were soaked and shivering, and Lestrade had hastily arranged a ride home for them before they could develop hypothermia. Even so, John had been feeling closer to it than he liked by the time they arrived back at Baker Street. He had also been feeling increasingly irritated, since Sherlock had spent the ride home alternating between glee at having caught his quarry, and spates of wild indignation at having them ‘suddenly turn stupid’. That all of this had been done through shivering and chattering teeth might have been amusing if John hadn’t felt more like an ice lolly with every passing minute. As it was, it had just got on his nerves.

They had finally pulled up outside 221B and stumbled, blanket-draped, out of the police car and into the front hallway of the house. Once inside John had breathed a fervent sigh of relief at getting out of the biting wind, which was even more biting when one was half-frozen from a dip in the river. Sherlock, still shivering violently but seeming quite unconcerned by it, had shaken his curly head like a dog and dropped his blanket into a soggy heap on the floor.

Mrs Hudson had come out of her flat when she heard them, and she had exclaimed over their soaked and bedraggled state, scolding Sherlock in typical motherly fashion and giving him an exasperated little swat. Sherlock had blithely ignored both the scolding and the swat, still too caught up in his mingled excitement and fit of pique. Mrs Hudson had, in turn, ignored Sherlock’s ranting and shooed them both upstairs in the direction of a hot shower. Sherlock had bounced—literally bounced, even if it was a bit more clumsily than usual—up the stairs. Growling under his breath, because _bouncing_ after a night like that really just was not on, John had squelched after him.

Of course, then there had been the question of who got the shower first, or at least there would have been, if Sherlock hadn’t already shut himself in the bathroom by the time John got there. He had given the closed door a long-suffering look and then headed for his bedroom to change out of his wet clothes. That had helped a bit, but it had still been a very chilly wait for the shower. By the time he had heard Sherlock finally emerge from the bathroom, he’d been fairly sure most of his appendages had actually gone numb, which hadn’t been improving his mood at all.

At last taking possession of the bathroom, John had stepped over the puddle of Sherlock’s wet clothes on the floor, dropped his own into the laundry basket and then, with a sigh, scooped Sherlock’s up and threw them in on top. And then finally, gratefully, blissfully, he had turned the shower to hot, paused for as long as he could bear to let it warm up and then stepped under it with a groan of relief.

He’d stood under the hot water for about fifteen minutes before he even bothered to pick up the soap.

And by the time he’d finally dragged himself out of the shower and got dressed—flannel shirt, jumper, warm trousers, thickest socks he owned—he was very grateful to be dry and relatively warm, but that still left tired, hungry and pissed off.

He headed downstairs, hoping it would be warmer down there, and found Sherlock—barefoot, in pyjama bottoms, t-shirt and dressing gown—sprawled out in the armchair in front of the fireplace. The fireplace actually had a fire going in it, which was a welcome sight—John suspected Mrs Hudson’s doing there. What wasn’t a welcome sight was the sulky look on Sherlock’s face.

“Lestrade,” he greeted John in a petulant tone, waving his phone for emphasis, “had a go at me for leaving them out. I think he was _scolding_ me. Bloody cheek.”

“You did leave them out,” John said shortly, moving gratefully closer to the warmth of the fire. “And maybe someone should scold you. You could have been killed tonight, you know.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock scoffed. He went back to examining his phone.

John pinched the bridge of his nose and prayed for patience. “No, actually it’s not nonsense,” he said. “There were two of them. They’d already killed seven people. And you decided it was a good idea to play Wind in the Willows with them?”

Sherlock looked up at him blankly, apparently forgetting to be petulant for a moment. “Wind in the Willows? What an odd reference.”

“Messing about in boats,” John snapped. “Which made me think of—look, you decided you had to _chase_ them. Two of them. With a gun. And a bloody big knife, in case you didn’t notice.” He rubbed his forehead, feeling like he had a serious headache coming on. “You’d found them, you knew who they were, you knew where they were—why didn’t you just call Lestrade?”

“Boring,” Sherlock said in airy dismissal. “They were unusual. I was curious. But then they turned out to be boring in the end, too.” He scowled. He seemed to have taken the whole ‘turning stupid at the end’ thing extremely personally, as if the killers had purposely set out to deceive him.

“They panicked,” John said. “Panicking people do stupid things, no matter how clever they are. And panicking murderers are likely to add to their body count!”

His voice had risen by the end, even though he hadn’t intended it to. He’d been doing his best to stay calm, but Sherlock’s blithe dismissal of the risks he’d taken was starting to grate on his last nerve.

“Oh, do stop it.” Sherlock sat up from his sprawl and rose to his feet, giving John an impatient look. “You’re sounding like Lestrade now.”

“Good,” John said. “Maybe you need a few more people who sound like him sometimes, if you’re going to take mad chances with your life like that time and again.”

Sherlock made a sound of disgust. “I take it back. Now you’re sounding like Mycroft.”

John knew that was intended as a deadly insult, and that only served to annoy him even more—yes, God forbid he show concern about Sherlock nearly getting himself killed. “Good,” he said again, his tone short and clipped with irritation. “Maybe you could use a few more people who sound like him, too.”

“Oh, believe me,” Sherlock said darkly, turning a suddenly furious look on him. “That is the very _last_ thing I need. My _dear brother’s_ kind of concern is not something I want to hear echoed from anyone, especially not from you.”

Was that supposed to be an even more deadly insult, or was it an odd sort of Sherlock compliment? John honestly wasn’t sure. “Especially not from me,” he echoed.

“Yes, especially not from you!” Sherlock turned on his heel and stomped over to the sofa, throwing himself down onto it and crossing his arms over his chest. The look on his face would have been at home on an angry four-year-old. He was actually throwing a tantrum now. Really, that was all they needed. John supposed that having Mycroft brought into it—even though Sherlock had been the one to bring him into it—had tipped the scales over into tantrum territory.

He tamped down on his own rising anger and lowered his voice, trying to calm things down before they got any more out of control. Both of them had had a scare tonight, both of them had been in freezing river water tonight, and neither of them were themselves. No need to let the situation deteriorate any further.

“Well, I’m not expressing Mycroft’s kind of concern,” he said, pleased with how even his tone was. “I’m expressing my kind of concern. And it’s genuine.”

“It’s unnecessary,” Sherlock snapped back.

John raised his hands as if in surrender, although he wasn’t actually surrendering. Still, he kept his voice calm. “I disagree.”

Sherlock shot to his feet again, fairly bristling with indignation, taking up a suddenly aggressive stance beside the coffee table. “Well, you shouldn’t!” he bellowed. “I don’t need your concern! I had everything under control! So kindly stop inflicting your concern and your opinions on me!”

And it was right then that all of John’s thoughts about calming the situation down, and not letting things deteriorate any further abruptly took a backseat. He usually walked away from Sherlock’s tantrums, went upstairs to his bedroom, or went out and got some air, and came back when Sherlock was likely to have calmed down. But Sherlock was being so unreasonable, so petulant, such a bloody _child_ that John had simply had enough. He had. Simply. _Had enough_.

The next thing he knew, he had taken four quick strides over to the sofa, grabbed Sherlock by the shoulder and _yanked_ , at the same time turning him, hooking a foot in between Sherlock’s and dropping himself onto the sofa so that his own body weight added to the pull. Sherlock was caught off guard despite his quick reflexes—apparently he simply hadn’t been expecting such a thing—and he went pitching forward, landing in a graceless sprawl across the sofa and John’s lap. The position was almost perfect for what John was intending; he merely had to drag Sherlock backwards a few inches.

The whole thing had taken only seconds. Military training was good like that; Sherlock might be bigger but John had been well taught how to take down bigger men than himself. Unfortunately, he couldn’t now grab Sherlock’s outside arm to twist behind him—Sherlock was using it to brace himself on the floor, and John wasn’t about to lose the element of surprise by trying to struggle for it now. Instead, he dropped his forearm onto Sherlock’s back and leaned hard, putting his body weight into it to keep Sherlock in place.

Then, before he could think better of the idea, he tugged Sherlock’s dressing gown up over his back, raised his free hand and delivered an almighty smack across the seat of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms, putting his shoulder into the blow so that the crack fairly echoed around the room.

And even after doing it—even after hearing the sound bounce off the walls, and feeling the answering sting in his hand—he could hardly believe he’d actually done it.

He was prepared for the real struggle to start then. He had taken Sherlock by surprise, but the initial shock would be over now, and he expected Sherlock to start immediately fighting in earnest to get free, most likely with fists and elbows flying. John was already bracing himself, mentally calculating the best way to block those fists and elbows, because he certainly wasn’t planning to give up on this without a fight. Sherlock had reach on him and he knew how to fight, but John had been military trained and he knew how to fight _better_. He had Sherlock at a disadvantage already; he just had to keep him there.

The outside arm was the key, he’d already decided. Once he got hold of it, which he should be able to do once Sherlock started swinging for him, he’d be able to twist it up behind Sherlock’s back and Sherlock would be just about stuck; it would take only minimal pressure to make struggling very uncomfortable. Then if he had to, he could lock Sherlock’s legs in between his own and that would take care of any kicking Sherlock might be considering doing. Sherlock was stubborn, but John had been trained to physically subdue a person, and he could bloody well physically subdue Sherlock Holmes while he doled out a richly deserved hiding. Sherlock had this coming, _seriously_ had this coming, and by God he was going to get it.

As it turned out, however, all his strategy was rather unnecessary. The pitched battle he’d been expecting simply never happened. As John’s hand cracked down for the first time, Sherlock stiffened, and John heard his breath huff out in a gasp that was probably shock more than anything else (and for that John couldn’t really blame him). But then . . . nothing. Sherlock didn’t start struggling. He didn’t even start protesting. He just stayed where he was, tense but completely still. John wasn’t even sure if he was breathing.

Not about to look a gift horse in the mouth—because if Sherlock wasn’t going to fight him then this was going to be a lot easier—he pulled his hand back and slapped again, just as hard, a walloping blow dead centre across the taut pyjama seat.

Sherlock jumped, sucked in his breath, and then . . . went still again. Not struggling, not protesting, not even making a sound. Just still. Almost compliant, and the thought of Sherlock being compliant in any way was actually a little unnerving.

It wasn’t nearly unnerving enough to make John stop, though. If Sherlock was trying to fake him out so that he’d let his guard down, or just give up on this whole thing, well, he was going to be disappointed. As long as Sherlock was apparently cooperating, this was going to be much easier, so John might as well do the thing properly. And if Sherlock wasn’t going to talk, then he would, because he certainly had a few things he’d like to say.

“You,” he began, raising his hand high again, “are _behaving_ like a _child_.”

Each emphasised word came with a smack, one to each side this time. Both made Sherlock jump ever so slightly, which wasn’t surprising. These weren’t little play-swats like Mrs Hudson sometimes gave him; John was putting his shoulder into it, and Sherlock’s thin pyjama bottoms didn’t exactly provide him with a lot of protection. He’d bet each whack had bloody stung.

Apart from those little jumps, though, Sherlock remained still and strangely quiet. It really was odd; John would have expected him to be lifting the roof in sheer indignation by now. But instead not a word, not even a token protest.

Gift horse, mouth, he reminded himself, and reapplied his efforts to the task at hand.

“And if you’re _going_ to _behave_ like a _child_ , then I will _treat_ you like one.”

That sentence had come with four good, solid whacks, still alternating sides. And still, not a peep from Sherlock, and no movement beyond an involuntary little jerk each time John’s hand connected. It was seriously unnerving. John refused to be unnerved.

“You could have been _killed_ tonight. It was _idiotic_ to go _chasing_ after those two. They had _killed seven people_.” Each of those last three words came with a smack; John believed the fact that the pair had killed seven people was an important factor in just _why_ Sherlock shouldn’t have gone chasing after them.

“And even when they _panicked_ , and started _shooting_ at us, you _still wouldn’t stop_.”

Another three smacks went along with those final words, John thinking he ought to make a point there too. Just _not stopping_ was one of Sherlock’s biggest problems; he _never_ knew when to stop.

He paused then, just for a moment. How many smacks was that now? Maybe twenty? He’d lost count. And did it really matter? Sherlock still wasn’t reacting beyond the tiniest of flinches with each one, so it couldn’t be hurting that badly, although John had no doubt that the smacks stung. They were stinging his hand, so they’d definitely be stinging Sherlock’s thinly-clad backside.

Not enough, though, not yet. If he was doing this, then he was going to do it properly.

He raised his hand again, bringing it down with extra vigour to make up for the pause.

“You should have _called Lestrade_. You should have _called_ him when you first _found_ them, instead of _having_ a go _yourself_. And even if you _didn’t_ call him _then_ , you _definitely_ should have _called_ him when they _panicked_ and started _shooting_ at us. You should _not_ have kept _chasing_ them. _Especially_ not _across_ a pile of _boats_.”

Every single emphasised word was accompanied by a whack with the full weight of John’s shoulder behind it, and by the time he’d finished going through that little speech, he was starting to breathe heavily with the exertion. God only knew how many smacks he was up to now, but his palm was really starting to sting—he should have worn his bloody slippers, then he could have used one of those—and he could only imagine what Sherlock must be feeling.

Not that Sherlock was letting him know it. Throughout that whole onslaught, Sherlock had remained quiet, not protesting or crying out even once. He had still jumped with each smack, and by the last few John had noticed him starting to squirm just a little, but certainly not enough to be called any kind of struggle. In fact he was taking it so well, so oddly cooperatively, that John was starting to wonder just a bit if he was actually doing it right. But how complicated was a spanking, really? Hand to bum until you’re sorry, that’s how he remembered it going.

Of course, the last experience he’d had with it, he’d been about ten and he’d been on the receiving end. He’d never had to dish one out before. Still, it wasn’t rocket science, was it?

No, he decided, this was just Sherlock being Sherlock. Sherlock was frequently extreme in all manner of things, and apparently he needed extreme measures in this, too. That was fine. John could do that.

And actually, now that he thought about it—if Sherlock was so determined to keep quiet and tough his way through this, then maybe the best way to get past his defences was for John to insist that he did some of the talking.

“Sherlock,” he said, and he was suddenly aware of just how much military bark had made its way into his voice. “Are you listening to me?”

There was a long pause, but just as John was about to ask again, with extra encouragement this time (he was raising his hand to apply it), Sherlock’s voice came quietly back to him.

“. . . yes.”

There was a definite note of strain in his voice, and John felt a little thrill of triumph (and relief) at hearing it. So he _was_ getting through to him, despite Sherlock’s determination to stay silent.

“Do you understand what I’ve said to you?”

In normal circumstances, such a question would have earned a blistering retort from Sherlock along the lines of him not being deaf or stupid so of course he understood. In these very abnormal circumstances, all John got in reply was another quiet, “Yes.”

Still strained, and something else too. Sherlock was never meek—the words ‘Sherlock’ and ‘meek’ didn’t even belong in the same dictionary, let alone the same sentence—but even so, John had the vague sense of something not unlike it. Apparently this really was making an impression. And in that case, all the more reason for him not to let up now.

“Good,” he said, planting another resounding smack on Sherlock’s upturned bottom. “Tell me then. What did you do wrong tonight?”

There was another long pause, and John fancied that this one was heavy with reluctance. Sherlock was very still, but there was a new tension in him that John thought he could understand. What was already happening must be bad enough, but making Sherlock talk while it was going on, making him actually participate in being scolded, was a step further again.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to force the issue, though. If Sherlock didn’t like this, then so much the better—that was the whole bloody point, after all.

He slapped down again, hard and fast, ignoring the stinging in his hand as he planted two solid whacks on each cheek, low down where it would hurt more. This time Sherlock seemed to flinch harder with each smack, and by the last one he was shifting his weight, surreptitiously but in obvious discomfort. His breathing had started to hitch, only a little but John could hear it. Yes, those ones had stung, all right.

“Answer me, Sherlock,” he said. “I mean it.” He smacked his hand down again, reiterating the point. “What did you do wrong tonight?”

Another pause, but Sherlock had obviously realised that John wasn’t going to take no for an answer. He spoke just as John was raising his hand for another smack, the note of strain in his voice much more audible this time. “I—went after them—without calling Lestrade.”

“Yes. Exactly.” John smacked him twice more, feeling Sherlock jerk and gasp in response. “What else?”

Sherlock had gone still again, but he was breathing rapidly, his head dropped low. “I didn’t stop—even when they started shooting at us.”

“Also correct.” John gave him six smacks this time, all good and hard and all in the same spot, layering them one on top of the other in rapid fire succession. He knew Sherlock was really feeling it now; he seemed to tense more with every whack, his back arching despite an obvious effort to stay still. When John paused again after the sixth, Sherlock let out a trembling breath and almost sagged as he relaxed, his head drooping low again.

For a moment John wondered if he ought to let up there. Sherlock was obviously feeling this—and not surprisingly given how hard John had been whacking him. But he’d cooperated, in fact he’d been weirdly compliant, and he was still cooperating. He was even giving the right answers to John’s questions. Was that enough, then?

But then he heard Sherlock take a deep and deliberate breath, and then another, obviously trying to steady himself. And some clear instinct, from somewhere deep inside, told John that they weren’t finished. Sherlock was feeling it, yes, but John wanted a real, honest response from him, which he hadn’t yet got. He let the events of the night filter quickly through his mind again, reminded himself once more of how worried he’d been—and not for the first time, either. No, he was doing this now, and he needed to make his point and make it clearly. They weren’t finished, not yet.

He kept his voice stern when he spoke again, the kind of military-stern that demanded obedience. “Now tell me why that was wrong.”

Sherlock had succeeded in steadying himself, it seemed. “I could have been killed,” he said after a moment, sounding more collected this time. But then he paused again, and added in a lower, almost hesitant tone, “You—could have been killed.”

That took John by surprise, because Sherlock sounded almost _shy_ about it, and sheepish, in a way that was totally unlike him. It had occurred to him, then, that he’d put John in danger as well as himself. That was . . . well, that was good. That was nice, actually. However, the danger to himself hadn’t been John’s main concern.

“I wasn’t worried about me,” he said, and it was true, he hadn’t been. He’d been worried about Sherlock, Sherlock throwing himself into danger again, playing games with bloody serial killers _again_.

The taxi driver case swam across his mind once more, and he abruptly decided that while he was doing this, while he had Sherlock in a position where he could quite literally _make_ him listen, he was going to make a point about that particular occasion as well. It had quietly bothered him ever since Sherlock did it, ever since Sherlock was _mad_ enough to do it. He’d never thought to address it like this, but he wasn’t going to waste the opportunity. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“I was worried about you,” he went on. “I _worry_ about you.” This time the emphasised word didn’t come with a smack, just with emphasis. “Because you throw yourself headlong into these situations without even seeming to care that you could get killed. Playing games with serial killers—and it’s not the first time, either. So while we’re on the topic.” He hardened his voice deliberately. “The taxi driver case.”

He felt Sherlock tense at that, heard him draw in a soft, startled breath. In surprise that John was taking this any further than tonight’s incident? Or just dismay that John wasn’t finished yet?

Either way, John wasn’t going to stop to ask. He braced himself, shook out his aching hand for a moment, and pressed his other arm down harder on Sherlock’s back.

“Why, Sherlock?” he asked, and raised his hand, feeling Sherlock tense even more as he sensed the movement. “Why the _hell_ would you get in a _car_ with a _known serial killer_ and let him take you _God_ knows where, _knowing_ he intended to _kill_ you?”

God, it had been insanity. Just thinking about it again, especially after tonight, was making John see red.

“And _then_ , when you could have _walked away_ —when you _knew_ he couldn’t _force_ you to play his _bloody game_ —why the _hell_ would you _decide_ to play it _anyway?_ ”

He’d returned to his earlier pattern, planting a scorching slap across the seat of Sherlock’s pyjamas with every emphasised word. The break hadn’t done his hand any good, and judging by the way Sherlock had begun to tense and squirm, previously controlled breathing breaking down into soft gasps again, it hadn’t done his backside any good either.

“Explain that to me again, would you?” John demanded, pausing to shake out his hand again, although he let none of his own discomfort show in his tone.

Sherlock drew in a ragged breath, and then another. John could almost see him trying to force himself still, force himself calm, although he seemed to be finding it much harder now. Good; that meant John was getting through to him.

The pause went on too long, and John raised his hand again, intending to apply some firm encouragement to answer. Sherlock hastily spoke before he had the chance, his voice low and almost choked.

“You know why.”

“Yes,” John agreed, and brought his hand down hard anyway, making Sherlock jump. “You were curious. You were bored. You couldn’t stand the idea of not knowing. The same bloody reasons you went after that pair tonight. And they are _not good enough reasons!_ ”

Each of those last four words was accompanied by a smack with the full weight of John’s shoulder behind it, every one of them a real, blistering wallop. His hand stung fiercely in protest, but it was worth it when he heard Sherlock groan a protest of his own. He had started to squirm and shift in obvious discomfort, his lean frame twisting just a little over John’s lap. A glance to the side and John could see Sherlock’s bare toes scrabbling against the floorboards, his legs locked straight and rigid with tension, muscles straining as he fought for control.

It was entirely understandable—John could only imagine what Sherlock’s bottom must look like under those pyjamas; there had to be bruises by now—and he was actually sympathetic to how much it must hurt, but at the same time he was also viscerally glad to see the reaction. It was necessary; he knew that on some deep level. Sherlock needed to really _feel_ this, to be completely unable to ignore it or dismiss it. He needed to know that John could, and would, make an impression on him that he wouldn’t soon forget.

His life, John realised abruptly, might actually depend on it.

The thought firmed his resolve even more, turning his voice low and intense and very stern. “They’re not good enough reasons, Sherlock. I care about you, you bloody barking lunatic. I care about your life. I don’t want to see it end. I don’t want to see you throw it away because you’re bored, or curious, or just feel like doing something mad. And if I can do anything—anything—to stop that from happening, then you’d better believe that I will.”

He raised his hand again, deliberately letting the memories flood back into his mind. First, the taxi driver memories; the fear and disbelief he’d felt when he’d realised Sherlock was gone, driven off God only knew where with a serial killer. And then the rush of helpless terror he’d felt when he’d looked through that window, across the nightmare gulf of distance separating the two buildings, and had seen Sherlock face to face with a murderer, one hand raising poison to his lips.

Those memories, months old now but still all too clear, mingled with the fresher ones of tonight. The way Sherlock had all but taunted the murderous pair, so eager to let them know that they were caught and that he’d been the one to work it out. The moment when bullets had started flying, one of them burying itself into the ground barely a foot from where Sherlock was standing, another that John could have sworn he’d felt pass only inches from them. And finally Sherlock chasing the two of them onto a boat, a bloody moving boat, where there had been no room to manoeuvre and John could only follow him, adrenaline screaming through his body as he prayed neither of them would end up dead.

Oh, yes. If he could do anything—anything at all—to stop events like those from happening too often, then Sherlock had just bloody _better_ believe that he would.

“You think about that while we finish this,” he said, and ignored the stinging in his palm as he brought his hand down again. Sherlock jerked under the blow, but John ignored that too, concentrating on landing a flurry of scorching whacks across Sherlock’s pyjama-clad backside.

There were no words this time; he let his hand speak for him. The smacks were low and fast and as hard as he could make them, one on top of another on top of another until Sherlock reached the end of his resistance and began to writhe, his hips twisting involuntarily across John’s lap. He had started to drum his toes on the floor, his back arching as every muscle stretched taut in agonised protest. Even then he didn’t cry out, but John could hear his ragged breathing, gasps of pain alternating with strained and shuddering heaves.

And then finally—so low that John barely caught it, Sherlock’s voice choked and tight and hitching painfully—

“I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry. God, he had actually said it.

John stopped dead when he heard the words, freezing in place with his hand raised. He was still for a long moment, and then he brought his arm down, gently this time, letting his hand come to rest across the area he’d just been pummelling. Sherlock actually winced even at that light contact, tensing and sucking in a trembling breath.

“All right,” John said quietly, shifting his hand to Sherlock’s lower back and giving it a quick pat. His voice had dropped back to its normal timbre, the sternness gone. “All right. We’re finished.”

Sherlock’s breath was still coming in hitching gulps, but after a moment John could feel him slowly start to relax, the wire-strung tension beginning to drain out of his body. His head lowered again, drooping onto the edge of the sofa, as little by little he went almost limp across John’s lap. Even so, John could feel him quivering all over, his breathing still rapid and unsteady, and then he made several soft sounds that were awfully like . . .

Oh, God. Despite knowing that Sherlock had deserved this, had really deserved it and even needed it, John abruptly felt like a cruel and sadistic bastard. He was still resting his hands on Sherlock’s back—there hadn’t been anywhere else to put them, really—but now he instinctively began to rub, one hand forming circles on Sherlock’s lower back, the other on his shoulders.

“Hey, hey, it’s all right,” he said, the gentle words coming automatically along with the rubbing. “It’s over. It’s all over.”

Sherlock’s only reply was to quiver even more, another of those choked little noises escaping him. He had folded an arm under his head and buried his face in it, suddenly looking like nothing so much as a child trying to hide from the world.

Oh God, oh God. Now John not only felt like a cruel and sadistic bastard, but also a vicious, heartless brute. The urge to offer comfort was overwhelming, but he had no idea how much Sherlock would let him get away with offering. He kept rubbing Sherlock’s back, both hands moving soothingly as his voice gentled even more.

“It’s all right. It’s okay now. It’s over, Sherlock. It’s all over. Do you want to get up? You can get up if you want to.”

He realised as soon as he said it that it was probably a stupid thing to say. Sherlock didn’t look like he was in any state to get up—or even move, for that matter—and it wasn’t like John minded having him stay where he was. He’d just been concerned that it might be uncomfortable; it had been an awkward position from the start, although it had worked well enough for what John had intended it for. Now that it was over, though, he’d thought Sherlock might feel better if he was somewhere more comfortable.

But then again, maybe not. Sherlock had made no move to get up by himself, so perhaps he was good where he was. John hastened to reassure him, not wanting Sherlock to think he had to move if he didn’t want to.

“Or not. You don’t have to. If you want to stay here, that’s fine too—”

He fell silent then, as Sherlock settled the issue by starting to move. John let him, lifting his hands away so that Sherlock wouldn’t feel constrained, waiting while Sherlock slowly and gingerly shifted himself backwards.

He didn’t stand up, though. Instead he just slid backwards, off John’s lap, and went to his knees on the floor. He ended up kneeling next to John, hands bracing himself up on the sofa, leaning over with his head bowed low. He looked completely undone; John could literally _see_ him trembling, could hear the hitching breaths that still sounded very much like stifled sobs. And Sherlock didn’t look up, not even once, as if he didn’t want to meet John’s eyes.

Unable to help himself, John reached out, putting a hand under Sherlock’s chin and gently tilting his face up. He’d thought Sherlock would resist—he’d been very deliberately keeping his head down—but he didn’t, he just meekly allowed John to make him look up. It only made him seem even more defeated, and John felt something twist in the vicinity of his heart, something which twisted even more sharply when he got a look at Sherlock’s face.

Throughout all of it, Sherlock had never once cried out, but his eyes were wet and red-rimmed, dark lashes clumped together with tears. Those tears had left shiny trails down his pale cheeks, and he was white and wide-eyed and there was something open and raw and vulnerable in his face that John had never seen so much as a hint of before this moment. He looked lost, utterly wrecked, and John huffed out a pained breath of his own as the sight went through him like a knife.

He reached out without even thinking, wrapping his arms around Sherlock and drawing him into an embrace. One hand went to Sherlock’s back, rubbing the trembling shoulders, while the other cupped around his head, John’s fingers twining into the dark curls as he guided Sherlock’s head down onto his shoulder.

Even as he did it, part of him was thinking dubiously, _he’ll never let me get away with this_. Because even though he had just put Sherlock over his knee and spanked him, which seemed a far, far stranger event, he still doubted that Sherlock would tolerate anything so mundane and sentimental as a cuddle.

But wonder of wonders, Sherlock did. He made no protest at all, and put up no resistance, just let John pull him close. His curly head drooped onto John’s shoulder, and then Sherlock was actually leaning into the hug, not quite hugging back but definitely leaning in, as if he wanted the comfort but at the same time didn’t know quite what to do with it.

But he did want it, John was suddenly sure of that. Sherlock was undone, broken open in some fundamental way, all his arrogant poise and self-contained coldness gone. He was vulnerable now—Sherlock, _vulnerable_ , it seemed incredible but it was true—and he badly needed reassurance, needed to be held and comforted until he could put himself back together.

And that was fine. John could do that. And Sherlock would let him; John would make sure of it.

He tugged Sherlock closer, feeling the overwrought trembling in the lean frame, Sherlock’s breath still hitching into unsteady gulps. “It’s all right,” John soothed. “It’s okay now. I’ve got you. Just breathe. I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock was leaning in even more now, going almost limp against him, and John realised belatedly that this position wasn’t really any better than having Sherlock sprawled out across his lap. The floorboards were too hard to kneel on comfortably for any length of time, and John wasn’t planning to end this quickly; Sherlock needed a lot more than just a brief hug and a pat on the head. If he could have, he’d have moved them to Sherlock’s bedroom so they could lie on the bed, but he honestly wasn’t sure if Sherlock was in any condition to get there.

No, the sofa would have to do, but not like this. John drew back ever so slightly and tugged on Sherlock’s arm. “Come on, you’re going to get sore knees down there. Come up on the sofa with me.”

Sherlock slowly lifted his head, looking at the space beside John with an almost pained expression, then raising wide grey eyes to meet John’s. For once, John was able to guess immediately what he was thinking, and he couldn’t help smiling a bit, albeit with a wince of sympathy.

“No, I don’t mean sit. I bet it hurts. Come on, up here.”

He tugged on Sherlock’s arm again, and this time Sherlock followed where he led, letting himself be gently manoeuvred until John had them in what he considered to be the best position available. He’d shifted himself down to one end of the sofa and had Sherlock lying on it, face down, with his head and shoulders in John’s lap. The sofa wasn’t quite long enough to accommodate all of Sherlock’s lanky frame, so he’d had to bend his knees and put his feet up on the arm. Even so, John thought it had to be a damn sight more comfortable than kneeling on wooden floorboards. And Sherlock seemed to agree, since he had settled there with a soft sigh of relief and relaxed, closing his eyes. John could still feel him quivering, but he thought it might be starting to ease off a bit.

That didn’t mean he was about to give up on the comforting, though. Once he had Sherlock settled, he rested one hand across Sherlock’s shoulders and settled the other on his head, letting his fingers card into the unruly curls. He began rubbing Sherlock’s back, letting his hand move slowly and rhythmically back and forth.

“It’s all right now,” he said. His voice had dropped to a murmur, low and soft and pitched to soothe. “It’s all okay. You just relax. I’ll stay with you.”

Sherlock said nothing—he hadn’t spoken at all since gulping out the apology that had brought the spanking to an end—but he shifted a little, as if trying to get closer.

Seeing that, John wished again that he could actually lie down with him and give him a proper hug—and if anyone had told him _that_ this morning he’d have laughed in their face—but on the sofa, this really was the best they could manage. Next time he’d have to make sure they did this in one of the bedrooms, so that Sherlock could lie down more comfortably afterwards.

Next time?

He blinked. Good God, _next time_? Was he really thinking about doing this again?

All right, it had certainly seemed to get through to Sherlock, and very effectively too if his current state was anything to go by . . . but it had been a spur of the moment thing. A last straw thing, a finally-run-out-of-patience thing. Sherlock had been behaving like such a child that John had just snapped and gone with his instincts.

Yes . . . that was exactly what he’d done. He’d gone with his instincts and it had worked.

But that was once. One time. Sherlock had pushed him over the line and he’d responded, this one time. And that would be it, wouldn’t it? He couldn’t just start _spanking_ Sherlock whenever he misbehaved, could he?

Could he?

No, come on, now. Sherlock was a grown man. Admittedly a barking mad grown man, who had no concern for his own safety much of the time, found trouble the way a dog found bones, and behaved like an absolute child on a regular basis . . . but _spanking_ him? Really?

But . . . it _had_ seemed to be effective. Bloody hell, he’d even said he was sorry. And look at him now—cuddled up to John in a way he’d never imagined Sherlock doing with anyone, no trace of resentment or anger over what John had done to him, just needing comfort.

Needing it. Just like he’d needed the spanking that came before it. And wasn’t that just what John had been thinking earlier, that Sherlock had needed this? That he needed a consequence he couldn’t dismiss or ignore? That he needed to know John could supply that consequence? That Sherlock’s life might actually depend on it?

And hadn’t he even said, out loud, that if he could do anything, anything at all, to keep events like tonight from happening too often, then Sherlock needed to believe that he would do it?

God, he had. He’d realised then what he’d started, known it instinctively; it just hadn’t quite crystallised in his head until now. But now it had, and he knew it like an inarguable fact, like a solid wall of clear intention. He would do this again if he had to. Sherlock being a grown man had nothing to do with it. If he needed this again, then John would do it.

 _If_ he needed it?

John rolled his eyes at his own mental phrasing. It wasn’t if, it was _when_. And knowing Sherlock—thinking about the kinds of things that Sherlock _did_ —he had to face it, _when_ was probably going to be _often_.

God, what the hell had he signed up for here?

Sherlock shifted under his hands then, making a soft, inquiring noise, and John abruptly realised that he had stopped rubbing Sherlock’s back while he was lost in thought. Apparently Sherlock was missing it.

John bit his lip to keep from grinning—because that really was cute, and Sherlock being cute was pretty damn funny, as well as endearing—and resumed the gentle motion, letting his hand stroke back and forth over Sherlock’s shoulders. “Sorry,” he said. “Just thinking. It’s all right; I’m not going anywhere.”

And he wasn’t, either. He knew that like another inarguable fact. Whatever it was that he’d signed up for with this . . . it was worth it to give Sherlock what he needed.

Sherlock gave another murmur, sounding more contented this time, and relaxed again. His breathing was easing now, evening out into a more normal rhythm, the hitching subsiding as the tremors did. He had gone almost limp, appearing completely wiped out, and John suspected it wouldn’t be long before he fell asleep.

Actually, John suspected it wouldn’t be long before both of them fell asleep. After the night they’d had, he was knackered too. And Christ, his hand ached. Rubbing Sherlock’s back was helping a bit, but there was a deep soreness there that suggested he’d probably bruised his hand as well as Sherlock’s bottom. If he was going to be doing this on any sort of regular basis, he was going to need an implement or two to use instead.

Well, there was always his earlier idea of a slipper. Or a belt, they both had a few of those. Maybe a hairbrush, too. Were there any wooden spoons in the kitchen?

His mental catalogue of possible implements was interrupted when Sherlock suddenly shifted again, tensing in a little jerk before stilling. John stroked his hair, letting his fingers twine through the messy curls. “It’s okay,” he soothed. “I’m here. It’s all right.”

Another little shift, a pause, and then Sherlock said quietly, “I know it’s all right.”

It was the first time he’d spoken since his broken apology, and John was glad to hear it. The words were soft, but even so they carried just a hint of his usual acerbic tone, and John was actually glad to hear that, too. Sherlock was already bouncing back, it seemed—typical, really.

Bouncing back or not, though, John noted that he still seemed quite happy to keep cuddling. As he stroked Sherlock’s hair, the dark head nuzzled just a little into the contact, and he was certainly making no move to get off John’s lap. He hadn’t even opened his eyes. Good thing too, because John wasn’t nearly done with comforting him yet.

With that in mind, he kept rubbing Sherlock’s back as he asked gently, “You okay?”

“Yes.” Still spoken softly, and Sherlock’s voice was still a bit shaky and thick, but he was sounding more like himself. “I think so.” Another pause, then Sherlock added almost sheepishly, still with his eyes closed, “Sore.”

John grinned a little at that. “I should think so.” His tone was half-stern, but he patted Sherlock in sympathy. “If it’s any consolation, my hand hurts like hell.”

Sherlock turned his head up slightly, his eyes half-opening for a moment before he relaxed back onto John’s lap. “It’s not.”

Now he was sounding much more like Sherlock, and there was enough of a hint of sulkiness in his tone to make John smile. “I should have worn my slippers,” he said wryly.

Sherlock shifted again, almost a wince, and John wondered if he was imagining the possibility. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Next time,” John said firmly, deliberately making the words a promise.

Silence, after that, and he felt Sherlock tense against him, saw his eyes half-open again and stay that way as he gazed up at John through his eyelashes. John patted his back again, but went on, determined to put his cards on the table now.

“Yes, there will be a next time. You needed that, Sherlock. And I meant what I said. If there’s anything I can do to stop what happened tonight from happening again, then I’ll do it. I think this counts. I’ve decided that this counts. You act up again, and this is what you’ll get.”

More silence from Sherlock, a long, drawn out quiet as they looked at each other, and John could only wonder what was going on inside his head. It had to be a lot for him to process. It was a lot for John to process. It was going to mean one hell of a fundamental change in their relationship. Sherlock was used to doing as he pleased whenever he could, and John’s attempts to rein him in so far had been limited to a bit of verbal scolding when Sherlock got too out of control—most of which Sherlock had blithely ignored. The idea that there might be consequences like _this_ on a regular basis—consequences that he couldn’t ignore—was going to be one hell of a major adjustment.

But Sherlock needed this. John was certain of it, he _knew_ it, and what’s more he thought Sherlock knew it too, on some level. Because when John had dragged him over his lap tonight and smacked him for the first time, making it clear what he intended to do—Sherlock _hadn’t fought him_. Not that John couldn’t have kept him down and spanked him anyway, but Sherlock hadn’t even tried to get away. He’d let John do it, staying quiet and compliant while John disciplined him, never once even protesting or asking for it to stop. He’d cooperated completely. And that, John thought, said a hell of a lot in itself.

And perhaps Sherlock was remembering that too, perhaps some of those same thoughts were working their way through that mad genius brain of his, because finally, after what seemed like a very long time, Sherlock’s eyes closed again and he relaxed, letting his head rest back on John’s lap. And then the reply came, so softly that John could barely hear it.

“All right.”

 _So, that’s that, then_ , John thought, and realised that he was surprised. On some level, he’d apparently been expecting a fight. But then, Sherlock seemed to be making a habit tonight of complying when John expected him to resist. Given that it _was_ Sherlock, John wouldn’t have been surprised if he was doing it just to be contrary.

But not about this, John didn’t think. They’d just come to an agreement, a strange and fundamentally life-changing agreement, both of them acknowledging that this was what they needed to do. Sherlock might well argue about the details of it in the future—John would be surprised if he didn’t, in fact—but he’d agreed to the general terms of it, and John was going to hold him to that.

So, that was that, then.

He nodded to himself, one quick, decisive nod, and resumed rubbing Sherlock’s back, smiling when Sherlock made a contented noise and relaxed even more. John let his other hand card through Sherlock’s hair again, adding quietly, “And this, afterwards.”

Sherlock’s reply was just as quiet. “All right.”

“Good,” John said. “Glad that’s settled, then.”

There were several minutes of comfortable silence after that, as John kept up his comforting back rubbing and Sherlock stayed limp and quiet beneath it, all the tension gone from him as if it had been wrung out. He was so still that John began to wonder if he’d fallen asleep, but then Sherlock spoke again. His voice was still very soft, but muzzy now too, as if he was right on the edge of drifting off.

“I meant it.”

John didn’t need to ask what it was he’d meant, the words flashing instantly back into his mind: _I’m sorry_. The apology had been pained and desperate and choked with tears, but it had been sincere. He’d never doubted that.

In reply, he leaned down across Sherlock and gathered him into a hug, or at least as close to a hug as he could manage in their somewhat awkward position. “I know you did. And you’re forgiven. Now go to sleep.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything else, and after a few minutes more John was pretty sure his instruction had been obeyed.

Deciding to take his own advice, he leaned his head back against the sofa cushion, ignored the little voice in his head telling him that he’d regret it in the morning when he had a monstrous crick in his neck, and let his eyes close.

His last thought before he slept was that if Mrs Hudson happened to come in while they were arranged like this, they’d never live it down.

 


End file.
